•EMS  AND  VERSES 


;j  £.1. 

:JW 


SARAH    B.   EARLE 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


POEMS   AND   VERSES 


POEMS  AND  VERSES 
BY  SARAH  B.  EARLE 


CAMBRIDGE:    PRIVATELY    PRINTED 
AT    THE    RIVERSIDE     PRESS,    1905 


A-n 


SARAH  B.  EARLE  was  born  in  East  Baldwin, 
Maine,  October  22,  1835,  at  the  place  called  Valley 
Lodge,  which  had  been  the  home  of  her  forefathers, 
the  Browns,  for  many  years.  Leaving  home  at  the 
age  of  fifteen,  she  lived  for  a  few  years  at  Lynn  and 
Salem,  and  afterwards  at  Wilmington,  Delaware. 

In  the  year  1865,  on  the  seventh  of  February, 
she  was  married  to  Oliver  K.  Earle,  of  Worcester, 
Massachusetts. 

After  the  death  of  her  husband  in  1868,  she 
continued  to  reside  in  Worcester  until  1897.  In 
that  year  she  finally  moved  to  California,  where 
she  had  at  intervals  previously  spent  several  winters, 
and  settled  at  Pasadena.  Here  she  continued,  in 
full  health  and  with  undiminished  capacity  for  en 
joying  Nature  and  the  society  of  her  friends,  until 
her  death,  February  28,  1904. 


485187 

ENGLISH 


INTRODUCTION 

THE  writer  of  the  verses  now  for  the  first  time 
appearing  in  this  volume  was  never  willing  to  col 
lect  and  revise,  much  less  to  publish,  what  she  felt 
to  be  her  best  work.  Her  voluminous  early  efforts, 
carefully  stored  in  copy-books,  are  in  no  way  re 
markable.  But  for  the  last  forty  of  her  seventy 
years  of  life,  nearly  all  her  occasional  poems,  scat 
tered  on  flyleaves,  often  in  rude  finish,  among  her 
friends,  sounded  an  individual  note  of  character 
and  compelled  attention.  Marking,  as  they  do, 
family  reunions,  the  birthdays  of  kindred  or  of 
friends,  or  the  festivals  of  the  Christian  year,  her 
verses  claim  as  a  rule  to  be  nothing  more  than  evi 
dences  of  fond  affection  or  the  envoys  of  gifts. 
Perhaps  this  very  withdrawing  into  outwardly  con 
ventional  forms  and  times  of  expression  serves  by 
contrast  to  throw  out  into  stronger  relief  the  ner 
vous  energy  and  full-blooded  character  of  her  verse. 
Her  own  personality,  strongly  marked,  assertive, 
at  times  even  commanding,  in  works  of  benevo 
lence  and  reform,  retained,  in  the  world  of  the 
affections,  a  certain  maidenly  shyness,  save  for  the 
occasional  burst  of  poetic  appeal.  And  these  ap- 


Viii  INTRODUCTION 

peals,  what  effacement  of  self  goes  with  them, 
what  longing  for  the  peace  of  the  affections,  out  of 
a  life  of  inner  unrest,  what  abiding  consciousness 
that  not  in  her  life  itself,  nobly  active  though  it 
was,  but  rather  in  these  fragmentary  rhythmical 
utterances  of  her  storm-stressed  nature,  did  the 
best  that  was  in  her  come  to  light ! 

This  it  is  that  makes  these  poems  in  a  certain 
sense  more  intimate  than  biography.  She  herself 
would  have  preferred  to  be  known  to  those  into 
whose  hands  this  little  book  may  fall  by  these  alone, 
and  her  friends  feel  impelled  to  respect  this  unex 
pressed  wish. 

But  for  those  who  knew  of  her  manifold  activi 
ties,  there  is  still  enough  in  the  following  pages  to 
bring  her  image  more  vividly  before  them  than 
any  brief  sketch  of  her  life  could  do.  In  education, 
prison  reform,  civic  amelioration,  temperance,  she 
loved  to  work,  valiantly,  manfully,  at  the  side  of 
men.  This  militant  phase  of  her  character  is  mir 
rored  for  instance  in  the  impassioned  call  entitled 
"  Work,"  and  notably  in  her  religious  verses,  al 
though  for  the  latter  class  it  may  be  claimed  that 
as  true  hymnic  poems,  they  transcend  sex  and  per 
sonality  and  become  the  language  of  the  believer  and 
of  the  church. 

In  one  other  respect  also,  the  experiences  mir 
rored  in  the  following  pages  pass  beyond  the  interest 


INTRODUCTION  IX 

attaching  to  a  single  life,  and  suggest  comparison 
with  a  rapidly  passing  American  type.  It  will  be 
observed  that  reunions,  celebrated  here  as  taking 
place  in  California,  point  back  to  a  town  in  Maine, 
as  the  cradle  of  the  family,  —  to  that  Baldwin,  a 
small  and  scattered  hamlet,  but  nevertheless  the 
home  of  many  names  of  honorable  sound.  This 
history  of  her  family  was  exactly  repeated  in  the 
life  of  the  writer  herself.  She  was  born  and  reared 
in  the  old  mansion  at  Valley  Lodge,  which  she  has 
described  in  an  intimate  family  poem,  not  here 
included,  as  the  place  where,  even  in  her  girl 
hood  :  — 

"The  spinning  wheel's  hum,  when  the  fire  burned  low, 

Kept  time  to  the  love-ditties  sung  ; 
For  wheels  were  our  grandmas'  pianos,  you  know, 
\Vhere  musical  changes  were  rung." 

Yet  the  last  seven  years  of  her  life  were  spent  in 
her  cottage  at  Pasadena,  California,  where  it  was 
her  habit,  as  self-appointed  almsenier  in  the  wake 
of  a  noted  physician,  to  relieve  the  wants  of  those 
pathetic  banished  existences,  families  of  culture 
from  the  East,  which,  though  valiant  in  spirit,  had 
faltered  by  the  way  —  failing  to  keep  time  physi 
cally  with  the  unrelenting  quickstep  of  the  new  age. 
Her  own  '  stepping  Westward,'  both  literally  and 
also  in  the  meaning  of  Wordsworth's  poem,  had 
been  of  a  far  different  character.  Not  for  natures 


X  INTRODUCTION 

like  hers  the  vague  surmises  and  incomplete  frui 
tions  of  the  lines,  — 

"Yet  who  would  stop,  or  fear  to  advance, 
Though  home  or  shelter  he  had  none, 
With  such  a  sky  to  lead  him  on  ? " 

She  had  sought  and  found  for  herself  the 

"spiritual  right 
To  travel  through  that  region  bright," 

if  not  always  into  larger  scenes  and  experiences, 
yet  into  a  land  of  more  limitless  inner  horizons. 
In  this  lies  a  certain  evolutionary,  typically  Ameri 
can  element  of  her  character. 

To  the  American  youth  of  either  sex  in  the  early 
part  of  the  last  century,  life  on  the  old  soil  lit  up 
sunsets  of  bright  possibilities,  but  admitted  few  real 
opportunities  for  achievement  in  any  art  of  express 
ing  the  Beautiful  in  correct  or  pleasing  forms.  To 
this  more  or  less  vague  longing  in  the  better  en 
dowed  natures  were  added,  in  the  subject  of  our 
sketch,  love  of  color,  ability  to  model,  and,  in  gen 
eral,  a  temperament  teeming  with  the  demand  for 
expression  through  artistic  work  of  hands  and 
brain.  The  result,  amounting  as  it  did  to  more 
than  amateur  success  with  the  brush  and  the 
modeling  stick,  was  even  more  remarkable  in  the 
brave  rush  of  endeavor,  consistently  though  inter 
mittently  recurrent  through  many  years,  than  in 


INTRODUCTION  XI 

the  performance.  It  was  a  typical  American  evolu 
tion,  not  indeed  into  the  glorious  regions  of  pure 
art,  but,  through  the  search  for  the  same,  an  emer 
gence  into  successive  stages  of  conflict,  of  ever 
growing  delight  in  the  spirit  of  beauty,  of  willing 
resignation,  and,  finally,  of  clarified  wisdom  of 
character,  with  a  certain  portion  superadded  of 
habit  and  craftmanship  in  the  art  of  expression  in 
verse. 

Changed  conditions  and  a  new  century  have 
brought  some  degree  of  opportunity  to  every  corner 
of  our  vast  country,  where  hidden  talent  may  be 
struggling  towards  the  light.  But  brave  disciples  of 
the  art  of  living,  with  their  immense  avidity,  their 
resourcefulness,  with  their  hopefulness  and  cheer, 
with  the  will  to  work  out  some  method  of  adequate 
expression  for  inborn  promptings  of  soul  and  life, 
even  under  the  most  adverse  circumstances,  are  not 
so  plentiful  among  us  as  to  render  vanishing  exam 
ples  of  the  type  from  the  former  age  unattractive 
or  valueless  for  the  present. 

The  writer  of  the  verses  presented  in  this  vol 
ume  will  live  in  the  memory  of  devoted  friends  in 
the  lustre  of  her  character  and  excellent  virtues. 
But  to  her  friends  also,  as  well  as  to  the  limited 
public  which  this  book  is  intended  to  reach,  her 
poetry  will  suggest  a  certain  bloom  and  fragrance 
of  American  life,  as  imponderable,  yet  nevertheless 


Xll  INTRODUCTION 

as  precious,  as  the  faint  scent  of  the  garden  rose 
mary,  celebrated  in  her  verses.  And  some,  especially 
of  New  England  stock,  whether  still  on  the  old 
soil,  or  scattered  in  new  homes  from  Maine  to 
California,  will  recognize  a  rare  example  of  the 
kindred  type,  and  will  be  glad  to  acknowledge  the 
relationship. 

HENRY  WOOD. 

BALTIMORE,  1905. 


POEMS   AND   VERSES 


WITCH    HAZEL 

N  a  mid-November  morning, 
By  a  lake  shore  that  you  knew, 

In  our  friendship's  early  dawning, 
This  slight  twig  I  picked  for  you 
From  the  Hazel  where  it  grew. 


To  my  soul  the  sweetest  story 
Of  true  love  was  softly  told  j 

How  it  blooms  in  golden  glory  — 
When  the  summer  time  "it,  old 

And  life's  autumn  growing  cold. 


CHANGED 

DELICATE  vase  had  been  given  to 

me, 
Which  held  in  its  heart  all  the  colors 

of  light, 

In  rich  iridescence  I  thought  I  could  see 
An  image  of  love  float  in  luminous  white. 

Anon  it  was  robed  in  the  faintest  of  blue, 
Again  it  was  folded  in  daintiest  green, 

Then  changing  to  rose,  it  was  wrapped  in  the  hue 
That  deep  in  the  heart  of  the  opal  is  seen. 

These  tintings  were  fused  in  an  ether  so  clear, 
That  all  the  fleet  dancing  of  color  was  plain  : 

One  unlucky  moment,  made  blind  by  a  tear, 
I  dimmed  this  translucent  delight  with  a  stain. 

And  so  my  fair  vision,  my  image  of  love, 

That  floated  in  light  and  illumined  my  heart, 

Withdrew  in  a  cloud,  as  on  wings  of  a  dove, 
And  vanished.   'T  was  thus  that  we  drifted  apart. 


THE   BUTTERFLIES'   BALL 

HANDSOME    great    butterfly,   just 

from  the  fold, 

In  lusterless  velvet  was  clad, 
While  on  his  black  vestments  bright 

buttons  of  gold 
But  hinted  the  riches  he  had. 

He  summoned  his  queen  with  a  right  royal  grace 

To  dress  in  her  white  satin  gown, 
To  frill  all  the  edges  with  delicate  lace, 

And  soften  the  neck  ruff  with  down. 

For  Princess  Carlina  will  journey  to-day 
To  fair  Castle  Goughwood  near  by. 

We  '11  signal  her  passing  with  lithesome  display 
And  sue  for  a  glance  of  her  eye. 

My  Lady  is  great,  and  my  Lady  is  wise, 
And  she  lifts  a  wee  gold-pointed  wand, 

When  lo  !  a  great  thrill  of  delighted  surprise 
Is  felt  through  the  lore-loving  land. 

They  called  on  their  courtiers  and  every  Queen's 

maid, 
And  all  from  the  land  of  Cocoon, 


6  THE    BUTTERFLIES      BALL 

To  come  in  their  holiday  garments  arrayed, 
And  meet  on  the  green  at  high  noon. 

The  great  Cocoon  Kingdom  was  roused  by  the  call, 

'T  was  after  their  season  of  Lent ; 
Their  gay  little  figures  just  freed  from  their  thrall 

With  joy  in  their  Easter  clothes  went. 

Soft  orchestral  breezes  swept  over  the  grass 

And  played  a  melodious  strain, 
That  when  the  fair  Lady  Carlina  should  pass 

She  'd  hear  it,  and  listen  again. 

And  so  as  she  journeyed  along  the  hot  way, 
In  glare  of  the  white  scorching  sand, 

She  met  this  procession  of  butterflies  gay 
With  a  gossamer  fan  in  each  hand. 

They  bowed  and  they  courtesied  in  brisk  pantomime 

"  All  hail  to  my  Lady,  all  hail ! 
We  give  you  warm  welcome  this  sweet  summer 
time, 

In  picturesque  Butterfly  Vale." 

They  fluttered  in  rose,  and  they  flitted  in  blues, 

And  soared  in  the  shadings  of  red, 
And  purple,  and  yellow  and  violet  hues, 

With  gay  little  plumes  for  the  head. 


THE    BUTTERFLIES      BALL  7 

The  brown  satin  gowns  and  the  velvet  brocades 

Swept  over  the  flower-covered  way, 
And  soft  shining  gauzes  in  tenderest  shades 

Made  festive  this  great  holiday. 

They  whirled  in  wild  waltzes  and  mazy  quadrilles 
And  scarcely  touched  toe  to  the  ground ; 

They  varied  the  changes  at  all  their  sweet  wills 
And  merrily  swung  all  hands  round. 

They  gracefully  balanced  on  Golden  Rod  spray, 
Turned  corners  and  partners  by  turns, 

Then  sipped  from  the  juices  of  milkweed  the  whey, 
And  fanned  their  hot  faces  with  ferns. 

The  grand  right  and  left,  and  the  brisk  lady's  chain 

Took  shape  in  their  fanciful  flight ; 
They  waltzed   down   the   center,  chassezed   back 
again, 

For  "  all  promenade  to  the  right." 

Gold  buttercups  yielded  good  measure  of  dew 

Their  ravenous  thirst  to  allay ; 
Sweet  nectar  from  clover  top  goblets  they  drew, 

And  columbines  close  by  the  way. 

Stout  elderly  matrons  alighted  to  brew 
In  cups  of  white  catnip  their  teas, 


8  THE  BUTTERFLIES'  BALL 

But  ice  cream  and  sherbet  were  sheltered  from  view 
In  caves  under  evergreen  trees. 

The  fete  was  thus  ended,  and  each  Butterfly, 

In  passing  my  Lady,  bowed  low ; 
They  caught  a  quick  glance  of  her  beautiful  eye 

And  lingered,  unwilling  to  go. 

Then  spoke  sweet  Carlina,  and  waved  her  white 
hand, 

Her  spirit  astir  with  the  sight,  — 
Soft  words  understood  by  this  fluttering  band 

Who  nodded  their  heads  with  delight. 


FAITH,    HOPE   AND    CHARITY 

JHREE  precious  jewels  may  be  won, 

As  on  my  Heavenly  way  I  go, 
And  while  life's  day  is  wearing  on 
More  lustrous,  pure  and  bright  may 

grow. 
Ah,  if  upon  my  brow  they  shine, 

When  I  arrive  at  Heaven's  gate, 
No  other  passport  need  be  mine, 

They  're  known  to  those  who  watch  and  wait. 

My  way  lies  up  a  rugged  steep, 

On  bended  knees  I  often  grope, 
Or,  wading  through  the  waters  deep, 

I  sometimes  lose  my  jewel,  Hope  ; 
Then,  blinded  by  my  doubts  and  fears, 

The  beacon  light  grows  almost  dim, 
Till,  reaching  after  God,  with  tears 

I  cast  my  every  care  on  Him. 

And  when  I  know  that  He  is  near 

To  heal  my  bruised  and  bleeding  heart, 

To  wipe  away  each  bitter  tear, 

I  say  "  Sweet  Christ "  and  bear  the  smart. 


10  FAITH,    HOPE    AND    CHARITY 

I  know  my  Father  loves  me  more 

Than  I  can  love  an  earthly  one, 
And  so  I  whisper,  o'er  and  o'er, 

"  Thy  will  be  done,"  "  Thy  will  be  done." 

The  work  that  He  would  have  me  do 

Needs  all  my  heart,  needs  all  my  love, 
E'en  though  to  bear  the  journey  through, 

May  be  the  work  He  will  approve, 
And  when  the  jewel,  Faith  is  set 

Gleaming  above  my  upturned  face, 
Hope,  smiling  through  the  glittering  drops, 

Regains  its  wonted,  rightful  place. 

When  I  can  veil  the  unmeant  wrong 

That  ignorance  and  weakness  do, 
Knowing  the  Tempter's  wiles  are  strong 

And  that  God's  eye,  not  mine,  sees  through, 
When  I  can  lend  the  helpful  hand 

And  raise  the  sad,  despairing  heart, 
Can  teach  the  fallen  one  to  stand 

And  how  to  choose  the  better  part ; 

And  when,  with  patient  steps,  I  tread 
The  path  my  God  marks  out  for  me, 

Willing  in  meekness  to  be  led 
To  duty  through  humility ; 


FAITH,    HOPE    AND    CHARITY  II 

When  like  a  loving,  faithful  child, 
I  lift  my  cross  and  bear  my  woe 

With  gentle  mien  and  judgment  mild, 
The  jewel,  Charity,  will  glow. 

Faith  lights  the  darkest,  roughest  way, 

Hope  glows,  the  weary  heart  to  bless, 
And  Charity  illumes  the  day 

With  glimpses  of  God's  gladliness ; 
And  if  these  on  my  brow  shall  shine, 

When  I  arrive  at  Heaven's  gate, 
No  other  passport  need  be  mine,  — 

They  're  known  to  those  who  watch  and 
wait. 


WORK 

E  whose  idle  hands  lie  folded, 
In  luxurious  laps  of  ease, 
Soft  and  white,  and  finely  moulded, 

Fancy's  fickle  will  to  please  ; 
Listen  to  the  Master's  calling ! 
He  has  work  for  you  to  do ; 
Golden  harvest-sheaves  are  falling, 
Mould'ring  in  the  evening  dew. 

Ye  whose  idols  have  been  taken 

Home  to  blessedness  and  rest, 
Sitting  by  your  hearth  forsaken, 

Gazing  at  your  empty  nest  j 
God's  strong  arm  your  dead  enfolding, 

Shields  them  from  your  earthly  care, 
Trust  them  to  his  tender  folding ; 

To  his  harvest  field  repair. 

Ye  whose  homes  are  yet  unbroken, 
Blest  with  loved  ones  true  and  pure, 

Your  kind  word  if  fitly  spoken, 
May  keep  others'  pathways  sure. 


WORK  13 

There  are  woes  of  guiltless  sorrow, 

Ye  may  wisely  strive  to  heal, 
From  your  smile  crushed  hearts  may  borrow 

Hope  to  cheer,  and  grace  to  feel. 

Ye  may  keep  the  weak  from  falling; 

Guide  the  wandering,  groping,  blind, 
Out,  where  dangers  stalk  appalling, 

Paths  of  loveliness  to  find. 
Heedless  sin  and  thoughtless  straying 

Need  the  check  of  your  firm  hand, 
With  temptation's  flash-lights  playing, 

Teach  the  wavering  how  to  stand. 

By  the  drunkard's  frenzied  raving, 

Sin-wrung  souls  wherever  found, 
Vicious  lust  its  license  craving, 

Life-wrecks  strewn  our  pathway  round, 
By  the  railing  of  the  scoffer, 

And  the  wailing  of  despair, 
Be  ye  roused  to  come  and  offer 

Saving  work,  —  availing  prayer. 


A   LOVE    KNOT 

TOOK  a  wee  remnant  of  ribbon  so 

blue 

And  tied  this  mysterious  knot, 
The  color  to    symbol  the  hearts  that 

are  true 
In  keeping  what  can't  be  forgot. 

A  secret  was  born  to  our  souls  in  that  hour, 

As  sweet  and  delicious  perfume 
Is  born  of  the  fragrant  and  beautiful  flower, 

When  crushed  in  its  glorious  bloom. 

'T  was  only  a  dream  of  a  moment  or  two, 
As  dreamlanders  measure  their  time, 

Its  history  is  bound  in  this  ribbon  of  blue 
And  wrapped  in  the  tissue  of  rhyme. 

I  send  thee  the  ribbon  I  've  knotted,  my  dear, 
The  hallowed  remembrance  is  thine, 

One  drop  of  devout  consecration,  a  tear, 
Has  made  it  forever  divine. 


LIGHT   AND   SHADE 

IM  shadows  gather  round  the  door, 
They  flutter  from  the  waving  pine, 
And  nestle  neath  the  porch's  vine, 
Where  sunbeams   danced    an    hour 
before. 


And  plaintive  memory  drifting  low 
Across  the  heart  in  silence  steals, 
Its  solemn  sacred  thought  reveals 

Where  laughter  glanced  an  hour  ago. 

So  shade  and  sun  will  dim  and  glow  : 

Life's  tide  now  ebb,  now  flowing  stream, 
And  hope's  glad  ray  will  brightly  gleam 

Where  sorrows  lay  an  hour  ago. 


THE    INCREASE 

PLANTED  a  seed  in  the  ground, 
A  mite  in  its  cradle  of  clay, 

And  there,  all  alone  in  its  mound, 
Forgotten  it  lay. 

A  shower  fell  gently  one  night, 

The  soft  earth  was  jeweled  with  dew, 

The  sun  shone  in  warm  floods  of  light, 
The  tiny  plant  grew. 

At  length  the  most  wonderful  bloom 
Came  forth  to  enrapture  our  gaze ; 

It  lent  a  delicious  perfume, 
Like  incense  of  praise. 

A  kind  word  was  spoken  one  day, 
Where  tenderness  seldom  had  come; 

Tired  feet  that  had  wandered  away, 
Were  turned  toward  home. 

The  seed  was  forgotten  next  day, 

And  numbered  with  things  that  are  not, 

But  One  marked  the  place  where  it  lay 
And  never  forgot. 


THE    INCREASE  IJ 

His  showers  of  grace  fell  around ; 

He  shed  the  warm  rays  of  his  love ; 
And  quickened  the  seed  underground 

Into  blooming  above. 

The  feet  that  had  long  gone  astray 

Trod  boldly  along  in  the  light ; 
They  are  showing  blind  sinners  the  way 

Into  fullness  of  sight. 


LONELINESS 

HE  Autumn  sun  with  glory  crowns 

These  golden  days; 
The    trees     put     on     their     brightest 

gowns 
For  festal  praise ; 

And  every  woodland  haunt  resounds 
With  birdling  lays. 

Great  yellow  streamers  stripe  the  lawn 

This  afternoon, 
The  maple  trees  were  tipped  at  dawn 

With  bright  maroon, 
And  evening's  rosy  veil  is  drawn 

For  this  young  moon. 

The  low  south  sunlight  wanders  by 

Thy  folded  door, 
And  comes  in  mellow  drifts  to  lie 

Across  my  floor, 
As  if  to  mutely  question  why 

Thou  com'st  no  more. 

I  hear  the  soft  wind  ask  the  trees 
In  whispered  tone, 


LONELINESS  19 

And  every  hurrying,  bustling  breeze 

Takes  up  the  moan, 
And  in  the  storm  king's  track  one  sees 

Swift  queries  strown. 

And  I  sit  listening  for  a  sound 

I  know  so  well, 
A  quick  sharp  footfall  on  the  ground 

By  which  I  tell 
The  corning  of  a  friend  I  've  found 

Who  holds  Love's  spell. 

And  though  all  else  is  bright  and  fair 

That  I  can  see, 
The  sweetest  bird  songs  fill  the  air 

With  melody, 
The  joys  of  golden  day  I  share, 

But  have  not  thee  ! 

Thy  footfall  sounds  not  on  the  way 

To  greet  my  ear, 
Though  wait  I,  listening,  all  the  day 

Thy  step  to  hear, 
There  comes  the  sad,  sad  truth  alway, 

Thou  art  not  here  ! 

But  hope,  fond  hope,  that  maid  of  cheer, 
Comes  with  sweet  power, 


2O  LONELINESS 

And  bids  me  trust  without  a  fear 

To  Love's  sure  dower, 
And  then  I  know  thy  step  I  '11  hear 

Some  blessed  hour. 


OUR   MEETING 

HE  came  to  me  a  very  queen 

With  sudden,  sweet  surprise;, 
For  royalty  was  in  her  mien 
And  love-power  in  her  eyes. 


She  spake  the  words  that  women  use, 

But  with  angelic  sound, 
I  could  have  taken  off  my  shoes 

As  if  on  holy  ground. 

For  every  mellow  tone  and  word 

Like  drifting  music  fell ; 
My  soul,  with  adoration  stirred, 

Was  hushed  beneath  the  spell. 

Dimly  it  seemed  she  must  be  mine. 

A  treasure,  hither  tossed 
From  some  obscure  ancestral  line, 

I  once  had  known  and  lost, 


ROSES  AND    MEMORIES 

OME  drooping,  pale  pink  roses  lie 
In  fading  beauty  by  my  side. 
The  leaves  are  crisp,  the  petals  dry, 
Their  dewy  freshness  all  gone  by, 
They  're  simply  —  roses  dried. 


But  when  I  lift  the  withered  spray 
A  wondrous  fragrance  fills  the  air. 
Delicious  odors  float  away, 
And  in  their  drifting  sweetness  say 
In  memory  still  I  'm  fair. 

And  so  the  pleasures  that  are  past 
May  seem  to  fade  in  Time's  swift  flight, 
Until  some  loving  hand  has  clasped 
The  withered  roses  —  when  at  last 
Comes  back  the  old  delight. 


CLOUD   SHADOWS 

WATCHED  in  deep  rapture  a  great 

mountain  range 

To  see  a  procession  in  shadow  go  by, 
And  lifting  my  eyes  from  the  pageant 

so  strange, 
Saw  only  soft  cloudlets  afloat  in  the  sky. 

Like  great  drifts  of  thistledown  gleaming  in  light, 
Which  migrating  fairies  might  hoist  for  a  sail, 
They  traversed  the  sky  in  their  billowy  flight, 
Serene  in  the  calm  and  secure  in  the  gale. 

All  brightness  above,  and  all  shadow  below  ! 
A  mere  passing  vapor  athwart  the  sun's  ray  ! 
A  moment,  and  all  the  dark  mountain  will  glow 
In  ruddier  splendor,  with  brighter  display. 

And  then  I  bethought  me,  how  blindly  we  grope 
When  shadows  of  mystery  darken  our  way, 
When  flutter  of  death's  wing  extinguishes  hope, 
And  stricken  faith  falters,  too  prostrate  to  pray. 

Oh,  could  we,  oh,  would  we  look  up  through  our 

tears 
And  know  by  believing  God's  own  hand  is  there, 


24  CLOUD    SHADOWS 

Our  souls  so  bewildered  would  break  through  their 

fears 
And    burst    into    love-light    through    gateways    of 

prayer. 

We  'd  know  that  the  shadow  which  crosses  our 

path 

Is  only  a  cloud-mist  obscuring  the  sight, 
And  sombre-clad  spectres  that  brood  by  our  hearth 
Would  change  into  visions  of  trustful  delight. 


FIREBRANDS 

ILLIE  and  I  have  been  strangers 

For  many  and  many  a  day, 
But,  sitting  alone,  while  the  embers 
Are  wasting  and  fading  away  — 
Somehow  they  seem  to  be  shaping 
The  faces  of  old  friends  to-day. 

'T  was  only  the  way  a  brand  tumbled 

And  burst  into  ruddier  glow, 
That  brought  the  dear  fellow  before  me 

As  plainly  as  long  years  ago, 
When  together  we  drove  o'er  the  mountains, 

Or  dashed  through  the  crisp  crusted  snow. 

How  two  score  of  busy  years  change  us  ! 

They  've  made  an  old  woman  of  me 
With  wrinkles  and  angles  and  gray  hair, 

And  children  grown  tall  by  my  knee. 
I  wonder  just  how  many  changes 

In  fair  blue-eyed  Willie  I  'd  see  ?          • 

We  never  have  met  since  that  evening  — 
That  moonlighted  night  long  ago, 


26  FIREBRANDS 

We  drove  by  the  murmuring  seatide 
And  felt  the  grand  musical  flow 

Of  ocean's  great  pulse  beating  loudly 
That  thrilled  and  enraptured  us  so. 

The  other  great  seaside  he  'd  chosen 
For  work  and  for  home  and  for  life, 

To  battle  with  fortune  and  favor, 
To  risk  all  in  pioneer  strife ;  — 

I  never  had  dreamed  in  all  dreaming 
Will's  playmate  could  e'er  be  his  wife. 

I  thought  't  was  the  worshipful  spirit 
That  made  his  voice  tender  and  low, 

And  so  I  was  startled  from  dreaming, 

When  Willie  said,  "  Dear,  will  you  go  ?  " 

I  'd  planned  a  long,  great  work  before  me, 
And  sadly  I  answered  —  "  Ah,  no  !  " 

And  so  we  drove  silently  homeward 
In  stillness  and  sorrow  and  pain, 

The  murmuring  sea  growing  fainter, 
Our  separate  paths  growing  plain, 

We  spoke  our  farewell  at  the  doorstep  j 
«     I  never  saw  Willie  again. 

The  swift  years  brought  blessing  and  gladness 
In  love's  sweet,  harmonious  tone, 


FIREBRANDS  2J 

And  husband  and  babes  marked  their  passing, 
Those  milestones  of  bliss  all  my  own  ; 

While  Will  counts  his  treasure  by  millions 
But  counts  up  his  millions  alone. 


ONE   ROSE 

NE  drop  of  water  will  suffice 

To  symbolize  all  sin  forgiven, 
One  Saviour  bore  God's  great  device 
To  raise  a  fallen  world  to  Heaven. 


One  ray  of  light  embodies  all 

The  tints  that  color  this  broad  earth, 

The  one  word  "  Come  "  includes  the  call 
For  all  humanity's  new  birth. 

And  one  fair  rose  of  rare  perfume 

Brings  the  same  message  to  my  heart 

That  all  the  garden's  gathered  bloom 
With  laden  sweetness  could  impart. 


A   TEAR 

HE  rose  held  a  drop  of  dew, 

A  crystal  spray  :  — 
When  the  morning  sun  flashed  through 
It  faded  away. 


One  day,  on  thy  cheek,  fair  maid, 

I  saw  a  tear; 
Then  through  it  love's  warm  light  played 

And  I  kissed  it,  dear. 


TO   M.   E.   W. 

KNOW  the  way  seems  very  long, 

From  sunrise  surf  to  sunset  foam. 
But  Love  can  tune  his  tender  song 

To  that  low  key  we  knew  at  home, 
And  we  can  hear, 

With  Fancy's  ear, 

In  accents  clear, 
The  greeting  message  come. 

It  scales  Sierra's  lofty  height, 

Floats  on,  across  the  desert  sand, 
Ascends  the  Rockies,  gleaming  white, 

Soars  o'er  the  prairie  land ; 
Through  ether  blue, 

With  instinct  true, 

As  birds  pursue 
Their  course,  —  toward  Buzzard's  strand. 

This  flight  my  fond  thought  dares  to  take, 

In  sweetest  trust  from  sea  to  sea 
On  tireless  wings :   for  Love's  own  sake 

It  speeds  across  to  thee, 
And  evermore 

Gains  as  of  yore 

Thy  open  door 
Where  welcome  waits  for  me. 


A   PRAYER 

ESUS,  Saviour,  pilot  me, 

Over  life's  tempestuous  sea ; 
Unknown  waves  before  me  roll, 

Hiding  rocks  and  treacherous  shoal. 
Chart  and  compass  come  from  Thee,  — 
Jesus,  Saviour,  pilot  me. 

As  a  mother  stills  her  child, 

Thou  canst  hush  the  ocean  wild ; 

Boisterous  waves  obey  thy  will, 

When  thou  say'st  to  them  "  Be  still." 

Wondrous  Sovereign  of  the  sea, 
Jesus,  Saviour,  pilot  me. 

When  at  last  I  near  the  shore 

And  the  fearful  breakers  roar 
'Twixt  me  and  the  peaceful  rest, 

Then  while  leaning  on  thy  breast, 
May  I  hear  Thee  say  to  me, 

Fear  not,  I  will  pilot  thee. 


TO   A   FRIEND 

[HERE  'S  a  love  that  knows  no  mea 
sure  welling  in  thy  quiet  eye, 
And    in    mystic    depths    the    treasure 

loves  like  hidden  pearls  to  lie. 
Now  we  see  it  brightly  sparkling,  wakened  by  some 

tender  tone, 

Then  in  shadowed  silence  darkling,  hushed  by  some 
sad  sorrowing  moan. 

Ever  from  its  fountain  flowing,  into  many  a  heart 

it  steals, 
All  unheeding,  all  unknowing,  half  the  wounds  and 

woes  it  heals. 
Here  the  earth-worn  spirit  dreary  comes  to  dip  its 

drooping  wing, 
And  I,  dust-dimmed    pilgrim  weary,  lave  me  in 

love's  gushing  spring. 

Sweet  heart  home  !  'T  is  here  I  '11  enter  where  un 
changing  radiance  shines, 

Where  love's  clustering  flow'rets  centre,  and  where 
clinging  friendship  twines; 

Where  the  plants  thy  hand  doth  cherish,  feel  thy 
tenderness  and  care, 

And  the  lowliest  never  perish  from  neglect's  chill 
wintry  air. 


BIRTHDAY    LINES 


TO   J.   M.   R. 

S  Father  Time  marched  round  the  world 

In  his  accustomed  way, 
Quite  recklessly  his  scythe  he  twirled 
As  though  just  out  for  play. 

He  dealt  the  mildest  little  blows ; 

Touched  favored  heads  with  gray  : 
Put  spectacles  across  the  nose  ; 

Gave  slender  waists  "  a  bay." 

Led  story-tellers  to  repeat, 

Caused  needful  things  to  stray, 

Hung  little  weights  about  the  feet, 
Gave  naps  at  noon  each  day. 

But  when  he  came  to  our  dear  John, 

And  met  his  trusting  smile, 
His  heart  was  touched  ;  he  just  passed  on, 

And  bade  him  wait  awhile. 

And  now  John  has  this  fateful  dread 

So  perfectly  controlled, 
Wherever  else  Time's  feet  may  tread, 

He  never  can  grow  old. 

PASADENA,  March  n,  1899. 


TO   THE   SAME 

COMFORTING  story  was  long  ago 

told 

With  aspect  of  credible  truth, 
Of  a  valley  whose  denizens  never  grew 

old; 
They  drank  of  the  well-spring  of  youth. 

Some  sought  it,  some  shunned  it,  some  scorned  to 
believe 

'T  was  aught  but  an  old  witch's  song ; 
They  said  a  romancer  had  tried  to  deceive, 

And,  doubting,  they  journeyed  along. 

We  know  the  dear  friend  whom  we  honor  to-day 

Accepted  this  fable  for  truth ; 
He  tents  by  this  fountain,  he  basks  in  its  spray, 

And  breathes  in  the  ether  of  youth. 

This  wonderful  spring  gushes  up  from  his  heart, 

It  sparkles,  like  spray  in  the  sun, 
Good  cheer,  and  sweet  trusting,  abound  from  the 
start, 

They  ripple  and  gurgle  with  fun. 


TO    THE     SAME  37 

And  yet  there  are  waters  that  run  deep  and  low, 
Where  love  and  strong  faith  can  abide  j 

Where  falls  a  cool  shade ;  where  alone  he  may  go, 
And  whisper,  —  and  rest,  —  and  abide. 

In  whatever  key  Time's  chimes  may  be  rung, 
What  changes  the  fleeting  years  bring,  — 

The  dear  friend  we  honor  will  ever  be  young 
While  he  drinks  from  this  magical  spring. 

PASADENA,  March   n,   1900. 


TO  M.  E.  W. 

HOU   knowest   dear  heart,  I'd  gladly 

bring 

The  gift  to  make  thee  glad, 
My  love  would  seek  the  choicest  thing 
Her  storehouse  ever  had,  — 
And  costly  robes  and  jewels  fair 

Should  crown  the  day's  surprise, 
While  I  the  greater  joy  would  share, 
In  seeing  thy  fond  eyes. 

But  such  alas,  I  cannot  wring 

From  fortune's  clasp  to-day,  * 

And  so,  sweet  heart,  I  can  but  sing 

The  same  old-fashioned  lay. 
And  my  dear  love  is  all  my  theme  ; 

The  oft  repeated  strain, 
The  burden  of  my  nightly  dream, 

The  dawning  day's  refrain. 

I  turn  back  leaves  of  long  ago 

And  search  for  songs  of  yore, 
I  find  the  things  we  used  to  know 

And  sing  them  o'er  and  o'er. 


TO    M.    E.    W.  39 

I  try  the  soft  and  tuneful  lays, 

That  recollections  bring; 
The  lullaby  of  baby  days 

That  crooning  mothers  sing, 
And  I  forget,  yes, —  I  forget 

That  child  to  maid  has  grown; 
I  see  my  gold-haired  sprite,  and  yet 

I  know  that  youth  has  flown. 

Still  thirty  years  have  rolled  along 

And  brought  their  meed  of  pain, 
And  yet  to-day  no  other  song 

Can  wake  those  chords  again. 
And  so  dear  heart,  I  bring  to  thee 

The  same  old-fashioned  lay : 
The  love  that  flows  so  full  and  free  — 

It  knows  no  other  way. 

March  31,  1895. 


TO   THE   SAME 

OW  short  it  seems, 

The  little  year  just  flown  ! 
A  few  bright  dreams 
Into  experience  grown. 


A  few  more  flowers 

Than  ever  bloomed  before 
Adorn  the  bowers 

That  shade  our  open  door. 

A  few  old  loves, 

Matured  to  greater  strength, 
A  few  lone  doves 

Found  waiting  mates  at  length. 

A  few  sad  plaints, 

Turned  into  praises  new, 
A  few  pure  saints 

Have  vanished  from  our  view. 

A  few  sharp  blows 

Have  softened  stubborn  pride; 
For  near  each  rose 

A  cruel  thorn  may  hide. 


TO    THE    SAME  4! 

And  plans  we  made 

And  followed  many  years 
Have  seemed  to  fade 

And  leave  no  trace,  but  tears. 

Yet  sweet  fond  trust 

Has  never,  never  failed  ! 
In  doubt's  foul  dust 

That  banner  has  not  trailed. 

But  bright  and  clear 

The  standard  lifted  high 
Through  all  the  year 

It  floats  athwart  life's  sky. 

March  31,  1901. 


TO  THE  SAME 

SONGBIRD    perches   on    the    high 

roof  tree, 
I  say :  "  My  band  is  playing  tunes  for 

thee." 


Each  tender  love  note  he  recalls  to  sing, 
And  marks  the  pauses  with  a  flash  of  wing. 

This  mocking-bird  rehearses  all  his  trills, 

While,  high  in  air,  he  shows  his  white-edged  frills, 

Then  softly,  gently,  tenderly  will  he 
His  repertoire  repeat,  and  all  for  thee  ! 

The  livelong  day  he  '11  chant  a  roundelay 
Because  he  knows  it  is  thy  natal  day. 

Trailing  the  fence,  gleams  snowy  Cherokee, 
I  say :  "  To-day  the  roses  bloom  for  thee." 

The  breaths  of  Ottar  o'er  the  senses  steal 
As  blooms  the  darkly  crimson  Old  Castile. 

The  Gold  of  Ophir  flaunts  her  glory  free ; 
And  still  I  say:  "'Tis  blossoming  for  thee." 


TOTHESAME  43 

The  Lady  Banksea,  lavish,  generous  rose, 
A  million  sprays  of  dainty  petals  shows. 

The  white  LeMarque  climbs  high  the  trellised  way, 
Bursts  into  bloom,  to  celebrate  the  day. 

And  lowly  sheltered  neath  the  loquat  tree 
The  white  and  purple  iris  speaks  to  thee. 

And  countless  garden  tokens,  fair  and  sweet, 
Make  offering,  this  blessed  day  to  greet. 

March  31,  1901  . 


TO  THE  SAME 

NE  little  year  more 

Glides  away  as  before, 
To  mark  the  quick   flash   of  Time's 

wings. 
Days  vanish  so  soon, 
Just  a  morning  and  noon 
And  the  hush  that  departing  day  brings. 

We  take  up  our  task 

Each  morning,  nor  ask 
If  the  burden  be  heavy  or  light. 

So  the  days  fly  away 

Checked  with  labor  and  play 
And  the  rest  and  repose  of  the  night. 

The  mocking-bird's  song 

He 's  chanted  so  long 
Each  Spring  comes  with  freshness  and  cheer, 

While  the  linnet  sits  by 

With  his  red  kerchief  tie 
And  carols  the  tunes  of  last  year. 

The  song  sparrow  sings 
The  same  tender  things,  — 


TOTHESAME  45 

Love  ditties  that  won  us  of  old. 

They  charm  us  no  less 

Though  plainly  we  guess 
The  tale  has  been  many  years  told. 

Always  old,  always  new, 

The  canary  song  too 
Is  repeating  the  threadbare  old  lay. 

Each  time  it  is  heard 

Fresh  rapture  is  stirred 
Though  the  same  notes  are  warbled  for  aye. 

Above  the  doorway 

The  same  rose  vines  stray, 
That  welcomed  with  blossoms  last  year. 

Next  season  they  '11  bloom 

With  the  same  rare  perfume 
That  brightens  to-day  with  good  cheer. 

So  gladly  I  say 

For  this  natal  day 
The  same  thing  I  've  said  till  it 's  old, 

The  sweetest  and  best, 

Though  never  expressed, 
Are  wishes  no  words  can  unfold. 

May  each  fleeting  year 
Grow  more  and  more  dear, 


46  TOTHESAME 

With  life  at  its  truest  and  best. 

While  love,  gracious  love, 

Shall  descend  like  a  dove 
With  home's  sweet  content  for  its  nest. 

March  31,  1903. 


TO    W.    T.    B.    ON    HIS    EIGHTIETH 
BIRTHDAY 

'M  thinking  of  that  olden  time, 

The  long  ago, 
When  we  old  folks  were  in  our  prime, 

Or  thought  us  so  : 
When  all  the  world  appeared  sublime 
In  youth's  warm  glow. 

The  future  held,  clasped  in  her  arms, 

Fair  Fortune's  prize : 
And  we  walked  forth  to  grasp  her  charms 

Without  disguise, 
Nor  dreamed  disaster,  or  alarms, 

Could  wake  surprise. 

But  then  we  were  so  very  young  — 

And  youth  is  gay  — 
Our  harps  were  new  and  lightly  strung, 

Not  tuned  to  play 
The  heavier  chords  that  must  be  sung 

At  set  of  day. 

Long  years  rolled  on,  and  brought  our  share 
Of  work  and  play, 


48  TO    W.    T.    B. 

While  strength  and  will  to  do  and  dare 

Have  crowned  each  day, 
And  love  and  blessing  everywhere 

Have  smoothed  the  way. 

Now,  sweet  content  sits  calmly  by 

With  folded  hands ; 
She  bravely  lifts  her  trusting  eye 

Toward  better  lands, 
But  bears  with  patience,  lovingly, 

Her  earth-linked  bands. 

For  life  is  sweet  and  love  is  true, 

And  friends  are  dear, 
There 's  blessed  work  for  all  to  do, 

To  comfort,  cheer. 
So  we  can  tread  the  pathway  through 

Without  a  fear. 

We  '11  pluck  fresh  roses,  as  they  bloom 

By  winding  ways. 
We  '11  revel  in  their  sweet  perfume 

Through  sunlit  days, 
In  evening  glow,  at  midnight  gloom, 

And  starlight  rays. 

We  '11  welcome  joy  at  every  place 
With  songs  of  praise ; 


TO    W.    T.    B.  49 

And  smiles  shall  lighten  each  loved  face 

That  meets  our  gaze. 
And  kindest  words  and  deeds  shall  grace 

Our  roughest  ways. 

Then  joys  of  age  may  prove  as  rare 

As  life's  young  dream. 
The  cloudless  sky  as  richly  fair 

And  bright  may  seem 
As  those  old  castles  in  the  air 

We  thought  supreme. 


TO   M.   E. 

E  climb  along  an  untried  track, 

No  wonted  way, 
Peering  ahead,  or  glancing  back 
In  close  survey. 


The  Spring-time  flood  or  Autumn  rain 

Alike  we  meet, 
We  gather  wayside  tufts  of  grain 

And  flowers  sweet. 

But  evermore  we  push  our  way 

Toward  that  fair  goal, 
That  dream  of  rest,  whose  beacon  ray 

Inspires  the  soul. 

November  19,  1888. 


TO    THE   SAME 

OFT  odors  fill  the  sun-sweet  air ; 
Fair  blossoms   crown   the   wealth    of 

vine, 

Just  sifting  through,  I  catch  the  rare 
And  fragrant  breath  of  Eglantine, 
That  faintest,  finest  and  divinest, 
Sweetest,  fleetest  yet  completest 
Brier-breath  of  Eglantine. 

Then  Rosemary,  with  daintiest  scent, 
Comes  drifting  on  the  balmy  breeze, 
And  spreads  her  subtle  blandishment 
Like  gracious  Heaven's  own  Heartsease. 
Oh,  rarest,  faintest  Rosemary  ! 
I  hold  thee  dearest,  place  thee  nearest 
To  Heaven's  breath  —  Sweet  Rosemary. 

November  19,  1902. 


TO  C.  C.  E. 

ACCOMPANYING    A    GIFT    OF    A    BALSAM    PILLOW 

UR  natal  star  on  falling  leaves 

In  placid  calm  is  shining, 
The  waiting,  fragrant  earth  receives 

The  waifs,  without  repining; 
With  silent,  frugal  care,  she  weaves 
Her  winter  cloak's  warm  lining. 

Crisp  winds  snatch  others  as  they  fly 
From  maple,  pine,  and  willow. 

They  whirl  and  toss  and  roll  them  by 
Like  bright  caps  on  the  billow, 

Then  sweep  them  into  windrows  high, 
A  giant's  fragrant  pillow. 

Could  we  but  catch  the  odors  sweet 
From  mountain  gum-trees  sifting, 

Could  moor  the  aromatic  fleet 
All  through  the  balsams  drifting, 

'T  would  be  a  priceless  boon,  complete, 
For  weary  souls'  uplifting. 

To  capture  just  the  faintest  puff, 

Through  fir  and  spruce  tops  dancing, 


TO  c.  c.  E.  53 

Of  wild,  unconscious  woodsy  stuff 
That  makes  the  pines  entrancing, 

Would  fill  the  soul  with  joy  enough, 
Our  true  heartsease  enhancing. 

To  give  surcease,  to  banish  rue, 

Some  fleeting  good  to  borrow, 
We  've  stored  these  pine-leaves  fresh  and  new 

To  bring  thee  joy  to-morrow, 
A  talismanic  presence  true, 

To  guard  thy  dreams  from  sorrow. 

October  14,  1885. 


VERSES  FOR  SPECIAL  OCCASIONS 


AN   ANNIVERSARY 

TRIED  last  night  to  write  a  song 
Of  gladsome  joy  to  bring  to-day  : 

The  midnight  herald  stole  along 

And  still  my  muse  refused  to  play 
Aught  but  this  same  sad,  sorrowing  lay. 

'T  is  in  my  heart  to  wish  you  joy 
In  fitting  measure  for  this  day  : 

'T  is  pleasant  to  make  time  a  toy, 
With  which  to  sport  along  our  way ; 
It  keeps  the  life  so  fresh  and  gay. 

But  always  there  comes  back  to  me 
The  glory  which  has  gone  before  j 

And  when  your  brightning  lives  I  see, 
My  shadow  darkens  more  and  more. 

In  all  this  world's  close  busy  crowd 

I  stand  apart,  aside,  alone, 
And  wrap  my  spirit  in  the  shroud 

Of  cherished  hopes  forever  flown. 

I  try  to  say  that  I  rejoice 

That  God  has  been  so  good  to  you, 


58  AN    ANNIVERSARY 

That  he  has  blessed  you  with  the  choice 
Of  life  with  love  and  duty  too. 

I  pray  for  faith  so  broad  and  deep, 
That  I  may  look  the  vista  through, 

And,  climbing  upward,  always  keep 
The  light  beyond  me  clear  in  view. 

I  smile  because  you  smile  on  me, 
I  love  you,  for  your  hearts  are  mine, 

I  fight  life's  battles  to  be  free, 

And  crush  its  grapes  to  taste  its  wine. 

The  wine  is  tasted,  and  I  laugh ; 

'T  is  bitter-sweet  down  to  the  lees ; 
And  I  in  gayety's  livery  quaff 

Sad  memories  of  my  lost  heartsease. 

And  I  am  free  in  this  world's  strife  ! 

But  O  !  how  gladly  would  I  give 
Each  victory  that  crowns  my  life 

For  one  for  whom  't  was  life  to  live. 

I  have  my  three  for  daily  care, 
They  bless  my  life  at  every  hour ; 

For  them  my  work  is  one  great  prayer, 
My  love,  a  strong  sustaining  power. 


AN    ANNIVERSARY  59 

I  fold  them  to  my  mother  heart, 
Bestow  the  mother's  fond  caress 

And  try  to  heal  that  other  smart 
By  gentle  loving  tenderness. 

Yet  never  can  a  single  kiss 

Stamp  on  their  lips  its  loving  glow, 

But  I  'd  fain  sanctify  its  bliss 

By  cold,  pale  lips  beneath  the  snow. 

And  baby  forms  that  might  have  blessed 
Come  back  and  nestle  in  my  arms. 

Ah !  in  my  dreams  the  household  nest 
Is  never  emptied  of  its  charms. 

I  need  your  love,  and  every  thought 
That  carries  kindness  on  its  wing, 

For  more  and  more  each  day  I  'm  taught 
To  value  love's  sweet  chastening. 

Because  I  laugh  I  am  not  gay, 

Because  I  sing  I  am  not  glad, 
So  much  of  life  is  but  a  play, 

Where  laughter  more  than  tears  is  sad. 

Because  I  'm  brave  I  am  not  strong ; 
Fear  for  myself  has  made  me  bold. 


6O  AN    ANNIVERSARY 

With  trusting,  fainting  heart  I  long 
To  cross  the  tide  to  streets  of  gold. 

It  won't  be  long  and  I  can  wait. 

I  know  the  door  is  left  ajar, 
And  just  beyond  the  pearly  gate 

Beams  softly  bright  my  guiding  star. 


EASTER   MORNING 

WO  angels  lingered  at  the  tomb 

Where  late  our  risen  Lord  had  been  ; 
Their  whiteness  scattered  all  the  gloom 
And  let  the  heavenly  light  shine  in. 


I  like  to  think  these  angels  white 

Were  Love  and  Peace  in  mercy  given, 

To  be  a  sure  and  constant  light, 

To  guide  our  earth-bound  feet  to  heaven. 

So  on  this  blessed  Easter  morn, 

We  '11  take  each  angel  by  the  hand, 

And  Love  and  Peace  shall  journey  on 
With  us  to  find  our  promised  land. 


"PEACE   BE   UNTO  YOU" 

JOHN  xx.  19. 

HESE  words  our  precious  Saviour  spoke 

The  day  he  rose. 

In  that  first  evening,  when  he  broke 
The  tomb's  repose. 

My  wish  for  thee  can  be  no  less 

Than  this  to-day, 
Sweet  peace  that  shall  forever  bless 

And  bide  alway. 

That  peace  which  lifts  the  soul  above 

Earth's  loss  and  pain, 
That  yields  in  everlasting  love 

A  heavenly  gain. 

That  holds  us  in  our  sorrowing  woes 

Secure  from  harm, 
And  bids  the  wildest  storm  that  blows 

Be  still  and  calm. 

To  thee,  in  our  dear  Lord's  own  way 

Be  this  peace  given, 
That  eventide  may  hold  each  day 

The  glow  of  heaven. 


EASTER   MORNING 

| HIS  day,  oh  let  my  soul  arise, 
Spurn  every  worldly  aim  ! 
Tear  off  the  veil  that  blinds  my  eyes, 
Look  up,  aspiring,  to  the  skies, 
Burn  with  the  enkindling  flame  ! 

'T  is  Easter  day  !  As  Jesus  rose 
And  left  the  narrow  tomb, 
So  let  me  leave  my  earth-bound  woes, 
My  sins  and  ills  behind,  and  close 
The  shrouded  door  of  gloom. 

The  burdens  my  faint  heart  appall, 

I  'd  bravely  fling  away, 

And  let  each  cherished  idol  fall. 

From  heavenly  heights  small  things  seem  small, 

I  'd  climb  those  heights  to-day. 

April  14,  1895. 


« I  MUST  KEEP  CLOSE  TO  THE  HAND 
THAT  FEEDS  ME"1 

LOSE  to  the  Hand  that  feeds  me, 
Dear  Lord,  I  fain  would  stay. 
Close  to  the  Love  that  leads  me 
I  'd  follow,  day  by  day. 

Close  to  the  Truths  that  guide  me, 
My  lingering  thought  would  cling, 

And  Peace  should  walk  beside  me, 
Her  sweet  Good  Will  to  sing. 

Close  to  the  Arms  that  hold  me, 

When  weak  or  faint,  I  fail; 
When  darksome  clouds  enfold  me 

And  daylight  seems  to  pale. 

Close  to  the  Strength  uplifting 

I  'd  fondly  strive  to  keep, 
To  save  my  bark  from  drifting 

Out  o'er  a  misty  deep  ; 

Close  to  the  Lamp  that 's  burning 

By  paths  I  never  trod  : 
1  Set  to  music  by  G.  W.  Marston.    Published  by  Arthur  P.  Schmidt. 


IMUSTKEEPCLOSE  65 

To  keep  my  steps  from  turning 
Away  from  Light  and  God. 

In  Thy  dear  love  abiding 

Sweet  Christ,  keep  close  to  me, 

Thy  way  be  my  deciding, 
Till  self  is  lost  in  Thee. 

December  25,  1894. 


TO   C.   E. 


TRUST  thou  'It  find  it  better  far 
Than  any  bauble  gay, 
The  joy  I  lend, 

The  love  I  send 
From  my  fond  heart  to-day. 

December,  25,  1895. 


TO    MY   VALENTINE 

HAT  joy,  dear  heart,  it  was  to  know, 

By  precious  Violet's  dainty  sign, 
That  whether  I  may  come  or  go 

Thy  love,  thy  constant  love,  is  mine, 
That  thy  sweet  gift  could  tell  me  so, 
Rejoiced  thy  faithful 
Valentine. 


A  VALENTINE 

VER  the  way, 

Just  over  the  way, 
Dwells  a  shy  maiden 

Who  will  not  say  nay. 
If  you  incline 

To  say  —  "  Wilt  be  mine  ?  " 
She  softly  will  whisper : 
"  Your  own  Valentine." 


FOR  THE   GOLDEN   WEDDING  OF 

REUBEN   AND   ANNIS    BROWN 

JANUARY  25,  1825-1875 

IFE'S    lengthened   web   has   been    un 
rolled, 

As  yard  by  yard  you  daily  wove ; 
And  now  I  trace  a  thread  of  gold, 

D  ' 

That,  running  through  the  fabric's  fold, 
Reveals  the  lines  of  figures  bold, 

Still  glittering,  though  the  cloth  is  old. 

Full  fifty  years  ago  and  more, 

The  warp  for  this  great  web  was  laid, 

And  Reuben  looked  the  pattern  o'er 
Calmly,  as  did  his  sire  before  ; 

A  fair,  brave  youth,  well  versed  in  lore, 
Proud  of  the  homespun  that  he  wore. 

He  said  :  "  It  surely  would  work  ill 
To  weave  this  mighty  web  alone ; 

To  black-eyed  Annis,  o'er  the  hill, 
I  '11  go,  and  ask  to  help  me  fill 

The  woof,  likewise  to  spin  and  quill." 
And  Annis  sweetly  said,  "  I  will." 


7O  THE    GOLDEN    WEDDING 

Here  in  the  web,  a  dash  of  gold 

Has  glistened  bright  for  fifty  years. 

And  confidentially  I'm  told, 

The  right  to  weave  it  is  controlled 

By  a  small  boy-god,  blind,  of  old, 
Who  can  be  neither  bought  nor  sold. 

And  so  the  pattern  winds  its  way, 

With  sunshine  here,  and  shadow  there  ; 

The  laugh  and  song  of  childhood's  play, 
Go  rippling  o'er  the  ground-work  gray. 

Youth,  doing  battle  in  its  day, 
Then  passing  silently  away. 

Some  pictures  of  the  past,  I  trace 
So  closely  I  would  draw  them  here : 

When  rains  had  swelled  the  crossing  place, 
Orestes,  with  strong,  kindly  grace, 

Would  lift  me  high,  with  droll  grimace, 
And  take  me  o'er  in  safe  embrace. 

Troilus  too,  in  winter's  snow, 

Would  guard  me  on  my  way  to  school, 

And  when  my  feet  were  cold,  below 
The  frosted  point  that  tingles  so, 

In  stocking  foot-race  we  would  go, 
Till  my  chilled  toes  were  all  aglow. 

f  D 


THE    GOLDEN    WEDDING  71 

Electra,  a  tall,  graceful  maid, 
"  Kept  school "  when  I  was  but  a  child, 
And  as  through  pasture  paths  we  strayed, 

The  walk  a  lesson-book  was  made. 
If  miles  we  missed,  the  while  we  played, 

Our  childish  faults  were  lightly  weighed. 

So  you  've  been  weaving,  year  by  year, 
The  pattern  of  the  lifework  done  ; 

And  to  us  all  have  grown  so  dear 

We  're  glad  to  add  our  mite  of  cheer 

To  light  the  festive  picture  here, 
A  friendship  for  all  time  sincere. 

And  when  the  old  loom  shall  be  still, 
The  shuttle  passing  through  no  more, 

When  there  's  no  longer  warp  to  fill, 
Nor  any  woof  to  spin  or  quill, 

Ten  Cyrus  children,  down  the  hill, 
Will  cherish  still  the  weaver's  skill. 


MAINE   IN   CALIFORNIA 

WRITTEN    FOR  THE   MEETING  OF  THE  STATE  OF  MAINE 
ASSOCIATION  OF  CALIFORNIA,  MAY  15,  1886 

(CROSS  our  land  from  east  to  west, 

From  sea  to  coast,  from  coast  to  sea, 
Fair  Norumbega's   sons  have   pressed 

Industriously, 

And  anchored,  with  determined  will, 
Their  chosen  mission  to  fulfill. 

Their  warm  hearts  beat  with  loyal  pride 
For  home  or  fame,  for  gold  or  friends, 

And  while  't  is  true  that  distance  wide 
Enchantment  lends, 

Old  scenes  and  loves  are  held  most  dear, 

And  native  land  seems  very  near. 

How  proudly,  gladly,  does  our  thought 
To  that  dear  rock-bound  region  turn ; 

Our  memories  are  deftly  wrought 
With  thoughts  that  burn, 

And  on  these  free  red-letter  days, 

We  look  back  through  a  golden  haze. 


MAINE    IN    CALIFORNIA  73 

We  smell  the  old-time  damask  rose 
Just  close  beside  the  garden  gate  ; 

No  petted  favorite  that  grows 
Can  reach  a  state 

So  perfect  in  its  shape  and  hue, 

Fresh  morning  bloom,  bedashed  with  dew ! 

Those  peonies  again  we  see, 

Great  globes  of  crimson  in  the  grass, 

The  housewife's  pride,  and  ecstasy 
Of  all  who  pass  ; 

With  garden  border,  gay  in  frills 

Of  gorgeous  yellow  daffodils 

And  lilacs  arched  the  porchway  o'er, 

That  grand  old  purple  lilac,  too, 
Its  fragrance  sifted  through  the  door, 

The  rooms  all  through  ; 
'T  was  not  of  fashion's  fickle  art, 
But  true  love,  rooted  in  the  heart. 

Still  closer  to  our  choice  will  creep 

Through  all  the  wealth  of  bloom  we  know, 

The  arbutus,  which  wakes  to  peep 
Through  melting  snow. 

Its  dainty  perfume  stirs  the  heart, 

And  oceans  seem  less  far  apart. 

The  may-flower  blooms  when  hills  are  bare  ; 
Her  sweetness  with  spring's  chill  wind  plays  ; 


74  MAINE    IN    CALIFORNIA 

But  golden  rods  and  asters  flare 

In  autumn  blaze  ; 
They  frolic  in  as  brilliant  dyes 
As  poppies  and  blue  baby  eyes. 

We  turn  with  joy  to  leafy  June, 

When  blooming  apple  hues  are  gay, 

And  bees  keep  up  their  droning  tune 
The  long,  sweet  day  ; 

Such  fragrance  floods  the  eventide 

We  scarce  believe  the  country  wide. 

Soft  memories  of  the  hot  July 

Come  floating  back  from  new-mown  hay 
The  whetting  scythe's  sharp  note  drifts  by 

The  meadow  way. 

How  well  we  old  Maine  people  know 
The  drying  swath,  and  sweet  windrow. 

The  music  of  that  harvest-time, 

Like  mountain  echoes,  hidden  dwells, 

Till,  like  a  soft-toned,  distant  chime 
Of  pealing  bells, 

It  softly  floods  the  air  of  noon, 

And  scythe  and  cradle  play  in  tune. 

And  wild  bird  songs  make  evening  thrill 
With  vesper  chants  in  mellow  strain  ; 


MAINE    IN    CALIFORNIA  75 

The  shy  song  sparrow's  gentle  trill 

We  hear  again. 

While  listening  to  the  low,  sad  lay, 
We  feel  but  half  as  far  away. 

These  pictures,  very  sweet  and  fair, 
Come  sometimes  to  a  tear-dimmed  eye, 

And  visions  that  are  thin  as  air 
Pass  silently ; 

For  there  are  paths  we  all  must  tread 

With  unshod  feet,  uncovered  head. 

We  name  them  not,  but  every  heart 

Its  sorrow  holds  —  its  hallowed  shrine  — 

Of  life's  most  treasured  gift  a  part, 
And  most  divine. 

How  close  to  us  these  lost  loves  stay 

Let  silent  eloquence  portray. 

The  rosy  dreams  of  long  ago 

Can  never  surely  all  come  true ; 
Young  hopes  that  to  completeness  grow 

Are  sadly  few. 

As  far  apart  as  strand  from  strand 
Lies  what  we  are  from  what  we  planned. 

Against  the  adverse  winds  of  fate, 
That  over  young  ambitions  blow, 


76  MAINE    IN    CALIFORNIA 

Strong  scions  from  the  Pine  Tree  State 

Stand  fast  and  grow.  • 

True  Pilgrim  stock,  though  gnarled  and  old, 
Bears  grafting  in  a  land  of  gold. 

And  while  they  seem  to  toss  about, 
As  wild  misfortunes  o'er  them  sweep, 

They  're  making  fibre  tough  and  stout, 
And  rooting  deep, 

Till  history's  unbiased  pen 

Shall  register  Maine's  honored  men. 

They  're  ready  with  a  helping  hand, 
And  have  been  since  the  time  of  old, 

When  Plymouth's  struggling  Pilgrim  band, 
Hungered  and  cold, 

From  Pemaquid  met  friendly  aid 

In  charity's  sweet  spirit  paid. 

They  started  at  the  first  alarm 

Of  Revolution's  bugle  trill ; 
Maine  soldiers  stood  with  lifted  arm 

At  Bunker  Hill ! 
They  did  not  loiter  by  the  way 
And  lose  their  chance  in  that  great  day. 

And  when  our  latest  peril  came, 

The  first  cry  struck  Maine's  listening  ear; 


MAINE    IN    CALIFORNIA  77 

She  felt  that  quick,  heroic  flame, 

And  answered,  "  Here" 
No  word  of  praise,  or  lauded  name 
Can  add  new  lustre  to  her  fame. 

But  how  her  truest,  noblest  braves 

Met  that  fierce  conflict,  and  how  well, 

Let  five  and  twenty  thousand  graves 

Of  patriots  tell ! 
"Maine's  quota's  full"  is  heard  again, 

When  numbering  the  hosts  of  slain. 

We  like  to  turn  the  pages  back,  — 
Read  primer  life  in  slow  review, 

Climb  the  old  straight  and  rigid  track, 
Unlike  the  new, 

Which  winds  and  circles  round  our  creeds, 

To  fit  our  mazy,  shifting  needs. 

Our  stern,  cold  winters,  crisp  and  rough, 
Deep-drifted  snow  and  ice-bound  rills, 

Found  boys  and  girls  with  grit  enough 
To  slide  down  hills, 

And  test  geometry's  device 

On  Saco  or  Sebago  ice, 

Or  find,  where  maple  orchards  grow, 
Rude  sugar  camps  in  early  spring, 


78  MAINE    IN    CALIFORNIA 

Where  rustic  pairs  o'er  crusted  snow, 

While  sleigh-bells  ring  — 
Soft,  chiming  bells  —  declare  their  loves, 
And  seal  their  fate  in  sugar  groves. 

Hard  times  but  made  the  children  brave 
To  clear  rough  obstacles  away ; 

And  "  nothing  venture,  nothing  have," 
Is  true  to-day ! 

The  power  to  stem  an  adverse  tide 

Has  made  Maine  men  our  boast  and  pride. 

When  down-East  urchins  found  their  world 
Half  buried  in  new-fallen  snow, 

In  pathless  hills  and  valleys  whirled, 
And  miles  to  go  — 

The  thought  of  staying  home  from  school 

Was  far  too  much  against  the  rule. 

Ox-teams  and  wood-sleds  breaking  way, 
Bore  precious  loads  of  eager  youth. 

Faith,  pluck,  and  shovels  won  the  day 
In  search  of  truth. 

A  rosy,  hooded,  mittened  band 

Went  forth,  warm  wrapped  by  mother  hand. 

It  was  so  in  the  long  ago  ; 

I  hope  the  custom  lingers  yet. 


MAINE    IN    CALIFORNIA  79 

A  privilege  in  worth  will  grow, 

When  hard  to  get; 
A  day  at  school  was  worth  the  while 
Of  shoveling  drifts  a  good  long  mile. 

Before  a  blazing  fire  of  oak 

Our  sides  in  turn  its  warmth  would  feel, 
While  Latin  verbs  and  Greek  roots  woke 

Our  classic  zeal ; 

And  so  the  boys  sought  Bowdoin's  shade; 
The  girls  true  Yankee  schoolma'ams  made. 

Schoolma'ams  in  Maine !  the  name  implies 

A  brave,  self-educating  band, 
In  training  stern  for  mothers  wise 

In  this  new  land. 

When  our  boys  came  new  homes  to  find 
They  did  not  leave  their  girls  behind. 

They  bear  their  full  and  equal  share 

In  building  home  and  church  and  school, 

Where  woman's  counsel,  love,  and  care 
May  help  to  rule, 

And  on  the  rocking  ship  of  State 

Become  the  pilot's  trusted  mate.     . 

If  Maine  is  to  her  motto  true, 

And,  daring  all  things,  bravely  leads, 


8O  MAINE    IN    CALIFORNIA 

With  eagle  vision  should  she  view 

Her  highest  needs, 
Nor  give  her  soaring  pinions  rest 
Till  she  has  found  and  won  the  best. 

Till  better  than  a  mine  of  gold, 
Or  pinnacle  of  tottering  fame 

Shall  prove  the  title  she  should  hold 
In  her  fair  name, 

Unsullied  honor  should  she  gain, 

And  wear  her  crest  without  a  stain. 


DEDICATION   HYMN 

TUNE  :    HAMBURG 

E  bless  thee  for  the  guiding  hand 

That  brings  us  to  this  gladsome  day, 
When  journeying  toward  the  promised 

land 
We  pause  to  consecrate  the  way. 

To  Thee  our  prayers  of  faith  ascend, 
To  Thee  our  songs  of  praise  are  given ; 

Here  let  our  tuneful  voices  blend, 

And  waft  their  incense  up  to  Heaven. 

Our  pilgrim  feet  shall  hither  stray ; 

Our  weary  spirits  here  find  rest; 
Wayfarers  learn  the  better  way, 

And  enter  paths  by  Thy  love  blest. 

Through  all  the  tide  of  coming  years, 
This  sacred  pile  shall  grow  more  dear, 

As  faith's  glad  joy  and  sorrow's  tears, 
Find  peace  and  balm  and  refuge  here. 

EAST  BALDWIN,  MAINE,  Jnne  13,  1877. 


AN   APPRECIATION 

MRS.  EARLE  was  a  passionate  lover  of  flowers. 
Their  exquisiteness  of  form  and  color,  and  their 
graceful  profusion,  touched  her  keen  sense  of 
beauty:  but,  more  than  that,  their  needs,  their 
power  of  growth,  their  responsiveness  to  good  con 
ditions,  appealed  to  her  great,  motherly  heart. 

In  her  garden  she  found  a  little  world  of  which 
she  was  the  arbiter;  a  world  whose  denizens,  while 
responding  to  all  her  care,  never  intruded  upon  her 
with  too  curious  a  sympathy.  It  was  the  place 
where  she  wrought  out  all  her  sorrows  in  forms  of 
beauty,  delving  with  her  own  hands,  tending  every 
plant  according  to  its  nature  with  love  and  under 
standing,  sometimes  even  watering  the  soil  with 
her  tears. 

Wherever  she  lived  she  had  flowers  as  a  running 
accompaniment  to  all  the  movement  of  life.  Spring 
time  excursions  from  Washington,  recorded  in  her 
letters,  are  draped  and  overhung  with  the  glory  of 
blossoming  shrubs,  and  the  splendor  of  the  spring 
forests.  Whether  she  wrote  from  Worcester,  or 
from  her  later  home  at  Pasadena,  there  was  always 
a  record  of  the  floral  as  well  as  of  the  human  com- 


86  AN    APPRECIATION 

pany  that  she  drew  about  her.  Pages  glow  with 
color  as  she  describes  the  profusion  of  blossoms  in 
her  California  home :  the  roses  that  climb  to  the 
rooftree,  the  lilies  that  grow  in  platoons,  the  bor 
dering  plants  and  the  creepers,  even  the  vegetable 
leaves,  beautiful  as  the  acanthus,  —  each  comes  in 
for  a  word.  Often  her  racing  pen  had  only  time  to 
dash  down  a  list  of  the  blossoms,  but  each  one 
must  be  mentioned,  each  color  touch  added,  to 
complete  the  picture  of  her  happy  day. 

And  she  was  not  satisfied  to  have  all  this  beauty 
outside  her  home.  She  must  bring  the  blossoms  in 
doors,  filling  great  vases  with  them,  and  setting 
them  close  about  her;  to  be  moved  when  friends 
came  if  the  rooms  were  too  small,  but  always  to 
be  at  hand  ready  to  bear  her  company. 

As  we  look  back  on  it  all,  we  can  see  in  her 
flower  world  at  once  the  ideal  and  the  reflection  of 
that  world  of  human  interests  which  always  cen 
tred  about  her,  as  she  drew  every  needy,  suffering 
soul  that  crossed  her  path  into  the  circle  of  her 
radiant  sympathy. 

HELEN  BIGELOW  MERRIMAN. 

BOSTON,  1905. 


A    CHARACTERISTIC   LETTER 

MANY  of  the  letters  of  Mrs.  Earle  are  filled  with 
allusions  to  her  garden.  They  express  what  is  so 
often  indicated  in  her  verses  —  the  unceasing  love 
for  her  flowers.  One  letter,  selected  almost  at 
random  from  so  many,  is  printed  here  with  her 
poems :  — 

PASADENA,  CAL. 
Sat.  Morn.  Aug.  4,  1900. 

MY  DEAR,  —  This  morning  I  have  thought  if  thee 
could  only  see  the  glory  of  the  morning-glories! 
They  run  up  onto  the  roof  of  the  house.  They 
climb  the  tall  trees  in  the  adjoining  lot.  They  travel 
down  the  fence  to  the  next  neighbor.  They  cover 
the  driveway,  if  I  do  not  keep  cutting  the  runners. 
They  go  up  the  Le  Marque  rose-trellis  and  bloom 
in  bright  deep  blue  with  the  clusters  of  white  roses. 
They  travel  over  the  plumbago,  which  is  now  in 
full  blossoming,  and  mix  their  dark  with  its  sky 
blue.  I  tarried  to  cut  roses,  while  the  cool  fog  is 
over  us.  The  roses  are  resting  now,  but  I  have 
on  the  table  before  me  —  cut  —  Jack,  Archduke 
Charles,  La  France,  Paul  Neyron,  Hermosa,  Pink, 
Rambler,  Vick's  Caprice,  Countess  Riza  du  Pare, 


88  A    CHARACTERISTIC    LETTER 

Safrano,  and  Bon  Silene.  There  are  beauties  away 
up  —  beyond  my  reach  on  the  trellis,  of  Marie 
Hennette.  I  picked  all  because  the  hot  sun  later 
will  spoil  them.  I  am  in  a  constant  struggle  to  keep 
things  alive,  during  the  long  summer,  and  some  days 
are  very  hot.  I  pray  for  rains  next  winter.  I  have 
begun  to  water  violets,  which  have  been  left  dry, 
and  these  little  blossoms  I  enclose  came  out  this 
morning. 

A  beautiful  border  of  bloom  begins  close  to  the 
house  and  runs  to  the  sidewalk.  I  dug  it  up  where 
the  grass  died  out  with  the  drought  at  the  edge 
of  the  lawn  next  to  the  driveway.  Here  are  bloom 
ing  Mesembryanthemum  which  I  picked  up  from 
a  gutter  and  planted, — a  honeysuckle  I  brought 
from  Owen  Brown's  cabin  at  Las  Casitas, —  a  lemon 
verbena  tree  which  I  set,  a  tiny  slip,  when  I  first 
came,  now  a  tree  to  my  shoulder  and  all  over 
lavender  blossoms ;  a  Nephitos  rose,  a  slip  from 
Miss  Wotkyns ;  Lavender  in  bloom,  from  the 
Clarkes'  white  double  stock ;  an  hibiscus  tree,  with 
fine  gorgeous  blossoms,  which  will  soon  be  feet 
high ;  Lady  Washington  geranium,  a  slip  from  the 
Bishop's  garden ;  Archduke  Charles  rose,  full  of 
bloom,  I  set  last  year ;  an  English  wall  flower  like 
Aunt  Ann's ;  mourning  brides  scattered  all  along 
between  things ;  two  roses  of  Castile  —  the  variety 
cultivated  for  ottar  of  rose,  both  of  which  I  have 


A    CHARACTERISTIC    LETTER  89 

set  and  are  higher  than  my  head,  always  in  bloom ; 
Carnations  at  intervals,  which  have  just  finished  and 
are  now  cut  back ;  great  spikes  of  flowering  pent- 
stemon  dark  red  and  pink  ever  blooming ;  clumps  of 
umbrella  plant  set  from  a  house  plant  too  big  for  its 
pot ;  two  La  France  roses ;  a  great  red  and  orange 
Lantana,  which  grow  trees  here ;  plumbago,  the 
beautiful  pale  blue  :  verbenas  white,  and  red  and  pur 
ple  ;  Drummond  phlox  and  a  nutmeg  and  rose  ge 
ranium  all  scattered  along.  It  is  a  lovely  border 
of  mixed  things.  Nasturtiums  and  morning-glories 
creep  in.  Slips  are  rooting  in  the  shade  of  these 
things,  which  I  can  keep  watered.  It  is  a  great 
joy,  but  endless  work.  You  cannot  neglect  them  a 
single  hot  day. 

I  have  now  ripe  white  figs  and  apples.  Oranges 
and  grape  fruit  are  green.  The  peach  trees  are 
suffering  from  the  recent  dry  winters.  The  mock 
ing-birds  and  linnets  are  cracking  their  little  throats 
with  song.  Callas  are  in  beautiful  profusion,  Mar 
guerites  at  their  best,  all  sorts  of  little  things  in 
bloom.  I  have  all  the  flowers  I  want,  but  never 
one  too  many. 

Thine  most  affectionately, 

MOTHER. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


Form  L-!i 

2om-lO,'44(2tf'l) 


PS 


_Earle_- 


E13A17 


Poems  and 
verses. 


PS 
1567 

E13A17 


UBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA      000035807 


NIDI 


Poems  and  Verses,  by  Sarah  B.  Earle, 
p.  p.  89.  (Cambridge).  Privately  print 
ed  at  the  Riverside  Press. 

To    try    to    recall    the    beauty    of 
vanished  sunset,  of  the  pathos  of  mus 
heard  long  ago  is  a  perilous  endeavor, 
yet  those  who  complied  this  little  book 
have  succeeded  in  a  task  akin  to  thes 
Mrs  Earle   (Mrs  Oliver  K.   Earle),  will 
be  remembered  as  a  resident  of  Worces 
ter  for  many  years.     In  1897  she  moved 
to  southern  California  where  she  lived 
until   her   death    two   years    ago. 
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